VIRGINIA, 1857—Freedom is a magical word. We never knew freedom by experience but every one of us knew it by feel. The idea of freedom made our spirits soar. The sound of the word sparked a raging, unstoppable fire within us that burned powerfully in young and old, every day of our lives. It was the eternal flame of hope.
Freedom was something we longed for. Though escape was nearly impossible, running off was always on our minds. We were like fish caught in a net, desperately longing to swim free into the great ocean of the world. We charged the barriers at every opportunity but to our bitter frustration, we found the way closed at all points.
So we did the only thing we could. We thought about freedom. We talked of it. We told stories about it. We prayed on it. We sang about it. Ninety-nine out of every hundred slaves were intelligent enough to understand their situation and cherish a love of freedom in their hearts.
We longed to hear reports from free black men and women who came around looking for work. Whenever we had a chance to talk to these freemen we made sure to inquire as to how they came to their good fortune so we might follow their footsteps.
Some were able to purchase their freedom by hiring themselves out for pay and saving what meager pittance they earned. It took many years but these hardworking folks bought themselves from an owner who needed cash. Some were made free by decree. Others were born free. Most free blacks lived up north where slavery was abolished.
Up north. Everyone knew that was the way to freedom. Whenever we heard of someone who came around here from the north, we just about tired him out with questions. We met black folks who had never been a
slave a single day in their lives. They came from such places as Canada, Pennsylvania, Ohio or New York.
I will never forget the day I was in town with Auntie Bee when a slave coffle passed through. A dozen men and women were chained together on their way to the slave market where they would be sold as cattle. They were sitting on a bench, waiting to be moved and one of them talked to us. He said his name was Solomon Northup and he told us he was a free man. We asked him how come he was in chains. Then he gave us his story.
Solomon Northup lived in Saratoga Springs, New York with his wife Anne and three children where he made his living performing on the violin. Kidnappers lured him to Washington with a phony job offer and they captured him and held him for weeks in a slave pen until that day when they decided to move him and the others by steamboat to Richmond, Virginia to be sold.
“We passed through the streets of Washington handcuffed,” he said about the poor slaves who accompanied him. “This is the capital of a nation whose theory of government, we are told, rests on man’s inalienable right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness! Happiness indeed!”
Everyone in Virginia, black and white, knew the name Nat Turner. Twenty years before I was born, he led a band of angry slaves across
Southampton County, murdering slave owners and their families. A thousand men hunted him while he hid in the swamps. They caught him and he was hanged. But after that, nothing was the same. Slave owners became deathly afraid that a bloody end waited for them and their families.
Murderous revolts could break out at any time. Any of us could be a new Nat Turner.
We heard the news that the President of the United States, Millard Fillmore, signed the Fugitive Slave Law. A runaway slave could be hunted
down anywhere in the United States and returned to the owner. No place was safe for us, not even a free state, not even up north.
We heard about the U.S. Supreme Court ruling against Dred Scott. He was a slave who traveled to the free state of Missouri with his master. When his master died, Dred Scott sued for his freedom. The court decided that slaves had no rights which the white man was bound to respect.
We talked a good deal about running off. Everyone threatened to go at one time or another. But we knew that running would not get you very far. If you headed north, you had to get past the mountains. Some slaves ran to the mountains anyway and stayed up here, hiding in caves and crags. It is
wild forest country up there, with plenty of game for food. They could hide out for years. If some died on the mountain, at least they would never have to return to work as a slave.
You could run but where would you go? The pattyrollers and their dogs would find you. Most runaways weren’t gone more than a couple of days. They were caught sneaking back for food or when they tried to see their wives and children. Whenever they brought a runaway back, you can be sure that poor soul would get a bloody beating.
They tried to scare the idea of running out of us but it didn’t always work. We made our plans anyway. We never stopped hoping, dreaming and scheming about reaching the land of freedom.
We heard stories about the Underground Railroaders, how they hide folks and feed them along the way, following the north star to Canada. People said they hope to meet that Harriet Tubman woman one day. We heard she traveled these parts at night, looking for people to take north. I know I would be honored to meet her because she is a brave woman.
We heard of a runaway from Norfolk named Shadrack. Slave catchers found him in Boston and were getting ready to bring him back to
Virginia but the free colored folks of the town got together and rescued their man. Shadrack escaped and went to Canada.
Freedom was in our hearts. It was in our dreams. It was our fondest desire. Freedom was in the very air we breathed.
We sang for freedom. We sang loud and clear. We sang at jubilees on Saturday nights. We sang at church meetings on Sundays. Every day we sang while we worked in the fields.
My knee-bones achin’,
Body’s racked with pain,
I calls myself a chile of God,
An’ Heaven is my aim.
I’se a long time on my way.
If you don’t believe I’se a chile of God,
Just meet me on dat other shore.
Cause Heaven is my home.
* * *
I’m goin’ away, goin’ away.
I’m goin’ away, goin’ away.
I wonder where was weepin’ Mary.
I’m goin’ away, goin’ away.
I’m goin’ away to live forever,
I’ll never turn back no more.
* * *
O Canaan, sweet Canaan,
I am bound for the land of Canaan.
Now if Massa and his crew of overseers ever really listened to what we were singing, they might have figured out what we intended by singing we are ‘bound for the land of Canaan’.
Whenever we heard the news that someone had run away, we sang. When one of us was caught running or died trying, we sang. We sang with all our hearts. Freedom was our Canaan.
And it won’t be long,
It won’t be long,
Poor sinner suffer here.
We’ll soon be free.
We’ll fight for liberty,
When de Lord will call us home.
Everybody had a plan for running off. They tried to imagine what they would do and where they would go when they got free. We talked about freedom, but, really, nobody knew anything at all about it.
Now and again you would hear of someone who really did run off. One day they were gone. We always asked if anyone has heard anything. Was he hiding? Did he make it up north? Did they catch him? Whip him? Kill him? We figured, no matter where he was, he was safe. He was up north or he was dead. Either way he found his way to freedom.
**********************************************************************************************
If you are interested in the book, please visit
www.synergebooks.com or
www.wingsfirstflight.com
Posted By: Richard Kigel
Monday, February 20th 2012 at 3:09PM
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